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almostwisegalaxy · 30 days ago

Note

Hey, hope you're having a wonderful day.

Could you maybe write a few fics for Geum Seong-Je from Weak Hero Class 2? Fluff and *soft only for her* trope.

Thank you so much and its okay if you don't wanna.

I totally get it, I'm a writer too.

Love,

Anon

You can't fix me

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader

Cause... I love villains without a sob story, just psycho

..................................................................................

The first day Y/N saw him, he was bleeding from the corner of his lip and sneering like a rabid dog.

Ganghak High School was far from a stable place, but this boy… this Geum Seong-je, he reeked of instability from miles away. Chaos lived within him. He was the type to destroy a room because someone had sneezed too loudly. Y/N was supposed to watch him.

It was one fight too many.

The hallways trembled, the windows exploded. He had his fist in the mouth of another kid already on the ground and he kept going, methodical, his eyebrows furrowed as if hitting helped him breathe. Three supervisors hadn't been able to do anything. So she had entered. Silent at first.

Then:

"Are you done with your circus act, or do I need to train you like a mutt?"

He hadn't even looked at her. Just a hoarse breath, another blow. She had approached. A hand on his shoulder. He had growled. She had reacted: a knee strike, then two. He had thrown a chair. She had teased him.

He had collapsed, his muscles contracted in a brutal spasm.

When he woke up in the principal's office, still groggy, she was waiting for him. Arms crossed, back straight.

"What are you, some genetic waste?"

She had looked at him with an almost chilling calm.

"Did you think you were a hero today? Do you believe that hitting harder erases your shitty life?"

Pause. A silence.

"You're pathetic. Even dogs know when to stop."

He had wanted to smile. But there was this crack in his chest, this short breath he couldn't expel. She wasn't yelling. She was cutting. And it was worse.

She had hit him again, another time, another week. Because he had strangled a student against the lockers. Because he had smashed a cell phone against a wall. Because he had looked at her, her, with that look full of defiance, filth, and darkness.

And yet.

He always came back to her. Sat on the bench near the supervisors' room, his back torn by blows, a poorly stuck bandage, his eyes fixed on her with a morbid intensity. He followed her in the hallways, provoked her in class, insulted her sometimes, coldly, softly, almost tenderly.

"Ms. Y/N."

He murmured her name like a reproach. Like a burn.

"Are you stalking me, or is it the other way around?"

She never answered. She took notes, wrote words in her notebook, read his old files. And sometimes… sometimes, when his back was turned, she looked at his scars. The angle of his jaw, clenched. The tremors in his fingers. The way he would break when he no longer knew how to breathe.

He wasn't crazy. Just fractured. And in his cracks, he had lodged her, her. He stared at her like a mystery he had to dissect, like a living enigma he hated not being able to silence.

He said nothing, but in his eyes, it was obvious:

Y/N lived in his head.

And he had decided that as long as she was there, he wouldn't let anyone else breathe.

---

He always came back.

Sometimes at dawn, eyes red-rimmed, a piece of chewing gum stuck under his tongue, fists bandaged. Other times at the last hour, dragging his feet, but his gaze sharp. He didn't miss any of her rounds. He waited for the click of her heels in the deserted hallways, the rustle of her files against her hip, that clinical way she had of ignoring him.

And it drove him crazy.

"Sleeping in your office now, ma'am?" He had sat on the table, head tilted.

"Don't you have a life? Or are you waiting for me to give you one?"

She hadn't looked up.

"Do you want me to take away your right to speak, or do you want your jaw to last until tomorrow?"

He had laughed. A real laugh, hoarse, short. No provocation, just… a release. As if, with her, the mask fell without him realizing it.

But he hated her for it. For that way of seeing through him. Of walking through his shattered pieces without ever getting cut.

So, he tested her.

He wrote stupid things on the walls: "Madam is a cold witch. She punishes without heart."

He sat in her chair when she wasn't there. Rummaged through her papers. Watched her from afar.

And when she entered a room, he spoke loudly, always too loudly, so she would hear his name amidst the laughter.

But never, never did he touch her.

There was a line. He didn't know why. Maybe because she had already put him on the ground. Maybe because she was the only one who had never backed down from him. No fear, no false respect. Just… contempt. Pure and precise.

And that obsessed him.

He had started dreaming about her. Not in a gentle way, no. Suffocating, sweaty dreams, where she held him down with her foot, where she slapped him silently while he laughed. He would wake up, heart pounding, unable to understand if he loved her, hated her, or both.

He bought drinks that he left on her desk without a word. She threw them away. He started again. Out of habit. Out of defiance. Out of need.

One day, she had called him into her office. He sat down, provocative.

"Another punishment, ma'am?"

"Do you think I enjoy seeing you all the time?"

She had stepped forward, thrown a file onto his lap. His file.

"Do you think I haven't read it? You're pathetic, Geum Seong-je. You cling to violence like a kid to his teddy bear. It's your only way to exist. But you don't impress me. You just waste my time."

She had said that without raising her voice. He had smiled. Slowly.

"It's crazy how much you like to talk about me. Haven't you noticed? It's always me in your mouth."

She had almost slapped him. But she hadn't. And he had known: that, that was the real trap.

That day, he had gone home. He hadn't slept. He had punched the walls. He had clenched his teeth until they bled. And he had sworn, not out loud, just to himself:

Y/N would look at him. Even if it meant burning everything he touched.

---

It was hot that day. A sticky, stifling heat that the school walls couldn't contain. The air reeked of teenage sweat, cheap deodorants, and something electric—a premonition, perhaps. As if something was about to break.

Geum Seong-je, however, seemed unusually calm. Too calm.

He loitered in the courtyard, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a half-empty water bottle. He had the kind of look that you couldn't hold: empty but sharp, like a polished abyss. That day, no one dared approach him. Even his own guys kept their distance. He had beaten up a kid that morning for asking him for a cigarette. Just that. One sentence too many, and he had seen red.

But when he saw Y/N, her straight back, her determined walk, the way she seemed to cut through the air around her, he straightened up. Something within him readjusted, like a broken compass suddenly finding north again.

She was coming out of a meeting with a student. She looked tired. No makeup. A few strands of hair stuck to her forehead. And above all, she seemed elsewhere.

He followed her, silently.

When she entered her office, she felt it. A sensation at the nape of her neck, almost animalistic. She turned around.

He was there. Leaning against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on her, not mocking for once. Almost… attentive.

"You look dead."

He moved closer. Slowly.

"Didn't you sleep?"

She groaned, irritated, and threw her file onto the desk.

"What's it to you?"

He smiled. Not his usual smile. Not the one that preceded blows. Another one, rarer. Soft. And dangerous.

"I'm meddling in what belongs to me."

She raised her head, eyes dark, ready to strike him. But he was already there, very close, hands in his pockets, his chest almost touching hers. And he wasn't looking at her in defiance. He was looking at her as if he were listening. As if he could hear her heart beating.

"Step back."

"No."

A silence. Too long. Too charged. The slightest movement would have shattered everything.

Then she made the mistake. A human error, certainly. Fatigue. Loneliness. A slight crack in the mask.

She didn't hit him.

She didn't run away.

She sighed. Just that. A sigh. A release.

And he saw the flaw.

He sensed the weakness, the whisper of a possible attachment.

And it was worse than pity. Worse than hate.

He raised his hand. Slowly. Gently. And his fingers brushed her cheek. Not roughly. With an awkward, almost sacred tenderness.

"You should sleep, ma'am."

She let him. Just a few seconds. She could have broken his wrist. She didn't.

And that's when he knew. That she was no longer invulnerable. That she had opened, even just a centimeter, the door. And in that gap, he rushed in.

Since that day, everything changed.

He no longer just followed her. He waited for her. At the metro exit, sometimes. In front of the teachers' lounge. He left things on her desk: a lighter, an annotated book he had stolen from the library, a peach-flavored chewing gum she liked. He didn't always speak. But he watched. For a long time. Obsessively.

And she… she said nothing.

She should have. She knew it. Every step towards him chipped away at her a little more. She saw his gaze change—more fixed, more serious. He no longer called her just "ma'am." Sometimes, it was Y/N. Pronounced slowly. As if he were chewing each letter. As if it were an incantation.

She should have set boundaries. She should have re-established the distance. But she had found herself waiting for his gaze. Watching for his silhouette. And feeling something bitter when he wasn't there.

One day, she had hurt her hand—a stupid cut with a piece of cardboard. She hadn't noticed him watching her from afar. That evening, he had entered her office without knocking, a first-aid kit in his hand.

"You're incapable of taking care of yourself, huh."

He had taken her hand without waiting. She could have slapped him. She should have. But he was already gently cleaning the wound. Without brutality. His fingers were warm, calloused, but precise.

She said nothing. He wrapped the gauze around her palm. Then, he kept her hand in his for a few seconds too long.

"I can't get you out of my head."

She wanted to answer. He interrupted her.

"I don't want you to be like the others. You're not. And I'm not stupid, Y/N. You think I'm just a wild animal, but I see what you're trying to hide. You furrow your brow when you're worried. You're afraid of getting attached, and you always look at me like I'm a time bomb. Maybe I am one, yeah. But you activated me. And now, it's too late."

She stepped back, finally. But gently. He didn't try to hold her.

She closed her eyes. For a second. Just one. And he saw her breathe faster. He saw that what she was holding back wasn't anger. It was something else. Something more painful.

"You'd better leave."

"Not until you understand what you've unleashed."

He left the room. Slowly. He didn't need to kiss her. Not yet. Not right away. He had seen what he wanted to see: the mistake.

She had looked at him differently. She had trembled, even slightly.

And that crack, he would never let it close again.

---

The rain had fallen all night. It hammered against the windows of Y/N's car, punctuating the tension that tightened her throat. She hadn't stopped staring at the police station door, her eyes fixed in a blur, her jaw clenched. She knew these kinds of calls. Too well. Violent kids, repeat offenders, desperate cases left to drift in a soulless system. But tonight, it wasn't a "case," it wasn't a student.

It was him.

Geum Seong-je.

When she had walked through the doors, the smell of disinfectant mixed with stale coffee and dampness had hit her. A familiar smell. Too familiar. And the police officers had greeted her with a vague air, as if it were just another detail in their night.

"He can leave," one of them said.

"What do you mean?" she asked, frowning.

"Orders from above."

"Meaning?"

He shrugged, offering no further explanation.

"Release him to the supervisor. That's what we were told."

Y/N felt her temples throb. She wasn't stupid. "Orders from above" didn't exist without a reason. Even less so when it involved a teenager implicated in a violent fight with another school. There had been serious injuries. One of the boys had a fractured jaw. And Seong-je? He was going to walk out, as if nothing had happened.

It smelled like bullshit. Real bullshit.

And not a single answer. Nothing.

When she entered the small back room, she saw him. Sitting on a metal chair, slumped against the wall, legs spread apart, face turned to the floor. He looked… drained. Arms crossed over his chest, forehead pressed against the wall. Disarmed.

A dirty bandage covered his right foot, which he held half-raised, without even paying attention to it. Dried blood stained his temple. His knuckles were split open, scraped down to the bone.

But it wasn't the sight of his injuries that struck her. It was the absence of fire in his eyes. The absence of that fierce rage he wore like a second skin.

"Seong-je?"

He slowly raised his head. He blinked. Then a small, painful grimace stretched across his split lips.

"Ma'am..."

His voice was hoarse. Slowly, he straightened up, swayed, but remained standing.

But this time, there was nothing provocative about that "ma'am."

There was no more irony. No more game.

He had said it like an oath. Like a sacred whisper.

"Let's go home." She took his arm. He didn't protest. But she felt his whole body stiffen when she put an arm around his waist to help him walk.

She settled him in her home. Not out of weakness. Not out of pity. But because she knew. Instinctively.

He didn't want to go back. He had no one.

He hadn't said it. He hadn't even tried to make excuses. He had just let himself be guided, silent.

In her small living room, she sat him down on the sofa. She got what she needed: first-aid kit, compresses, hydrogen peroxide. He watched her, his dark gaze fixed on her every move as if he never wanted to lose sight of her again.

And when she laid her hands on him…

When she gently cleaned the blood from his temple, when she brushed her fingertips over his swollen cheek, when she bandaged his ribs without even raising her voice…

He broke.

Not in sobs. Not in screams. Inwardly. Silently. Devastated.

Because no one had ever touched him like that.

No one had ever cared for him without making him feel like a beast, a problem, a mistake. She, she placed her hands with an almost… frightening delicacy. As if he had value. As if he were fragile.

And the more she touched him, the more something inside him melted.

The more his obsession with her became visceral, devouring, uncontrollable.

He looked at her like one looks at a vision. Like a miracle in a world of filth.

Y/N, for her part, focused on her actions. But she felt it. She felt his eyes following her, scrutinizing her. As if he wanted to engrave her into his flesh.

She tried to remain upright. Hard. But it was too late.

In a corner of her mind, she admitted it: she hurt for him.

And she hated that crack within herself.

"You're going to have to stay off that foot for a few days. It's pierced."

"They stomped on me with a metal bar," he replied without emotion.

She froze. He said it as if he were talking about the rain. As if it were normal.

And this time, she couldn't help but look up at him. He was staring at her. Intense. Obsessed.

"Why are you like this with me?" he murmured.

She hesitated. Her hands trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Because you're still standing despite everything."

"You still think I'm just a kid, huh."

She didn't answer. He licked his lips, painfully. Then, he leaned in slightly. He was still sitting, she kneeling in front of him. And slowly, he placed his hand on her cheek.

"Y/N..."

She felt her throat tighten.

He wasn't trying to provoke her. Or seduce her. Not really.

He was just trying to maintain that contact. That link. That small, invisible thread that now connected them.

And in an almost unreal moment, she closed her eyes.

Just for a moment.

She felt his warm palm against her skin. Understood. Accepted.

But as she was about to straighten up, he spoke. His voice was deeper. Slower. Trembling.

"Even if you were to love me one day… you'd refuse. Because I'm still a minor. Because you have too many principles. Because you're strong. And me… I'm everything you've learned to run from."

She opened her eyes. Their gazes met.

Brutally.

And she understood. That this boy, this damn broken, unstable, twisted boy… had just realized that he was falling.

That he was falling for her.

And she… she wasn't sure she wanted to stop him anymore.

She placed her hand on his. Withdrew it almost immediately.

But it was too late.

He had felt it.

And in his eyes, in that uncontrollable flame, she read the promise of an obsession with no way out.

"I'm going to disappear for a while," he finally said.

She raised her head.

"Where?"

"You don't want to know."

She wanted to protest. He shook his head.

"Not now. But I'll be back."

He stood up with difficulty. She helped him. He rested his forehead against hers. Just for a second.

"You see… you left a crack, ma'am. And me? I'm going to make it open until you belong to me."

And she let him go.

Not because she wanted to.

But because she knew that when he returned, nothing would ever be the same.

---

I’ve kept a low profile.

No more fighting. No more staring. Nothing. Like a ghost in these damn hallways. Not because I’ve changed. No. I’m the same. I just understood. Baek Jin, that dog, that parasite… he used me. I was a tool. A pit bull he’d unleash when he needed to. Nothing else.

So I backed off. I waited. I watched.

And during that time, I thought about her.

Ms. Y/N.

Fucking hell. Just her name in my head and my nerves ignite.

I remember her fingers on my face that night. It was nothing. An almost professional gesture. Cold. Calculated. But damn it… I got hard as a rock that night. I clenched the sheets between my teeth. I touched myself like a dog in heat. And it was her. It’s always her. It’s always her hand I imagine between my legs.

I’m sick.

I know it. I don’t care.

I want her to touch me again. Not just my face. No. I want her hand everywhere. I want her mouth on my skin. Her nails in my back. Her breath in my ear. Her saliva. Her fucking scent—that mix between clean and fire. Between discipline and hell.

I want to see her crumble. See her lose that mask.

I want to be the one who makes her tremble. Not from fear. From need.

I want her to tell me I’m hers. Even if it’s not true. Even if she’s lying. Even if she hates me.

Because me… I love her.

Not that bullshit love they sing about in dramas.

Me, I love her to the bone.

I love her like you burn.

I dream of her. And in my dreams, she doesn’t scream. She moans.

She tells me no, at first. Always. Because it’s her. Because she’s proud. Fucking upright. But I see her body betray her words. I see her thighs part, slowly. I see her mouth slightly open. I see her breathing quicken.

And I grab her by the nape of the neck. I look at her. I say nothing. And she understands.

And I take her.

I devour her.

I want her to feel that I’m there. Inside her. Everywhere. That even after, when she washes herself, when she tries to forget, I’ll still be there. Under her fingernails. In her nightmares. In her scent.

I’m obsessed.

I could spend hours staring at her without speaking. Just watching her walk. Her swaying hips. Her dark gaze. That contempt she wears like perfume.

Even when she insulted me, I got hard.

Even when she threw me to the ground, tased me like a dog, I would have thanked her.

It was her.

She calmed me down. She hurt me. She looked at me like I was a monster. And damn it… I want her to continue.

I want her to tell me I’m fucked up. That I’m a lost cause.

But I want her to tell me that while moaning. Between two sighs.

I want her to scratch me. Make me bleed. Reject me while I take her. I want her hate, her fear, her confusion. I want her damn mind.

I want to crush her beneath me and whisper in her ear:

“You’re mine now, ma’am.”

And she won’t say anything. Because she’ll know it’s true.

Even if she denies it. Even if she runs.

I’ll always find her.

Because I’m not in love like other people.

I’m not a nice guy. I’m not made for happiness.

I’m made to destroy her softly.

To show her that she never really controlled her heart.

I stole it, little by little.

And one day, she’ll see it.

One day, she’ll feel that she can no longer breathe without thinking of me.

That day… I’ll be there. With my hands around her hips.

With my mouth against her throat.

And she won’t say anything.

Because it will be too late.

---

She’d been warned he was back, in a fearful whisper from a student with a tongue that wagged too freely.

He hadn’t returned to school. Of course not. Too obvious. Too risky. He was hanging around the construction site of the old shopping center, the one no one watched. Walls covered in graffiti, windows blown out, rats making their kingdom out of the debris.

That’s where she found him.

He hadn’t hidden. He was sitting on the cracked steps, one arm bloody beneath his torn sleeve. His eyes were vacant. An expression she’d never seen on him before.

And it drove her mad.

Mad with rage. With pain. With not knowing. With not understanding. With having believed him to be different, perhaps. A dangerous, unstable guy, but not this. Not a fucking rapist.

She approached. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the concrete.

He looked up, slowly.

And without warning, the first slap landed.

A sharp crack in the cold air. Seong-je’s head snapped violently to the side. He didn’t react. He blinked. That was all.

“Tell me it’s not true,” Y/N breathed. Her voice was low. Strangled.

Not a scream. A warning.

He looked at her, silent.

She slapped him a second time, harder, backhanded this time. He swayed slightly but remained seated. Still without a word.

“Tell me it’s not true, damn it!”

He inhaled. Closed his eyes.

“It’s not true,” he said.

But it was too late.

The third slap was brutal. Stinging. He placed a hand on his cheek this time. Not to protect himself. Just… to feel.

As if the pain was the only proof he was still there.

Y/N was trembling. Her whole body. Not with fear. With rage. She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up brutally.

“Then why did you hide?! Huh?! Why did you disappear?! What did you think?! That by leaving me in the dark, I’d… forget?! Defend you without knowing?!”

He kept his eyes locked on hers.

“Because I knew you’d do exactly that. Hit me. Judge me. Look at me like them.”

She gritted her teeth. And then, without thinking, the fourth slap came. And this time, she screamed.

“I protected you! I covered for you for months! And you leave me with a fucking accusation like that?! What do you want?! For me to abandon you?!”

He flinched.

He hadn’t said anything.

But his eyes had clouded over. A shadow had passed.

“I didn’t want you to see that. Me, like that.”

She shoved him violently; he fell back onto the steps, his hands scraped by the concrete.

He didn’t get up.

She remained standing, panting. Broken.

“They have photos, Seong-je. Blurry, yes, but usable. Your black hoodie. Your profile. Your scar on your temple.”

He murmured:

“I wasn’t there. I was somewhere else. I was…”

He hesitated.

“I was hiding out at an old acquaintance’s place. I didn’t call you. I… I was scared.”

“Scared of what?! Of me?!”

He finally looked up at her, and this time, she saw it.

She saw the distress. The real kind.

“Scared that you wouldn’t believe me. That you’d look at the evidence and hesitate. That you’d doubt. Even for a second.”

She didn’t answer. She approached slowly. Squatted down in front of him.

And she hit him one last time, not a slap this time, a punch to the chest, with a closed fist.

“Bastard,” she breathed.

But he looked at her as if she were the last beautiful thing he had left.

And maybe she was.

He coughed, a trace of blood on his lips.

“I’m not a good guy, ma’am. But I never touched that girl. I never wanted that. And I never wanted you to see me like this. Weak. Accused. Falsely accused.”

She closed her eyes. For a long time. Then, gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder. He shivered under her touch.

“Who?”

“Nabaek-jin. Or the guys behind him. They want to take me down. Shut me up. Make me disappear. And there’s no better way than this kind of accusation.”

She nodded.

And for a long moment, they said nothing.

His lips were split. His gaze was lost. He looked worn out. Damaged. Younger than ever. Just a kid. A kid who had been hit too much, dirtied too much.

She stood up.

“You’re coming with me. We’re going to prove you weren’t there that night. We’re going to flip the script. And if you’re lying…”

He nodded.

“I’m not lying.”

She didn’t answer him. She didn’t touch him again.

But as she left, she murmured:

“Don’t run from me again. Because if you do… I’ll hunt you down myself.”

He offered a broken smile.

And in his head, a single thought returned, insistent:

She’s still here. Even after all that. She’s here. She touches him. She hits him. She yells at him. But she’s here.

And that presence was worth all the pain.

Even the pain she inflicted.

---

He was there, leaning against the damp wall of the fire escape behind the school, his gaze fixed on the empty alleyway. He knew she was close. He could feel it. He didn’t need to see her to anticipate her steps – that cold, steady, almost military rhythm. Y/N never did anything halfway.

And she arrived, straight as a knife, her fists clenched in the pockets of her too-thin coat.

She shot him a dark look. He didn’t flinch.

“You have bruises.”

He smiled. An empty smile.

“I don’t fight, Ma’am. I fall.”

She hated that smile. Because it made her want to believe him. And she refused.

“Why do you insist on doing this alone?”

He looked at her for a long time. Too long. And in his eyes, there was that fever she dreaded. That uncontrollable thing, that unhealthy fire that simmered beneath his skin.

“Because it’s my mess. Not yours.”

“And if you get killed? If you fall?”

He approached. Slowly. One step after another. Until he was close enough to feel her breath on his face.

“Then I fall alone. But I refuse to let you dirty your hands for this. I refuse to let them see you, associate you with me, touch you from afar or up close.”

She raised her voice.

“You think I’m some fucking porcelain doll?! You think I—"

He cut her off sharply.

“Let me be a man for once, Y/N.”

She stopped.

He continued, lower. His voice hoarse. And full of that muffled crack he only showed her.

“You want to do everything, carry everything. You’re used to people relying on you. Me, I want… I want to be the one who isn’t saved. I want that at least once in my life, I can say: ‘I handled it. Me.’

He looked up at her. He was burning. Literally.

“You brought me to my knees with your gaze, Y/N. And I don’t want the rats in this city to know you exist. You’re mine. And I’m your dirt to hide.”

She tried to answer. But the words didn’t come. Not right away.

So he left. And this time, she didn’t stop him.

Three hours later, in a deserted bowling alley with a broken neon sign, Geum Seong-je retrieved what he had carefully hidden.

An old sports bag, stashed under a false ceiling in the utility room. Inside, papers, hard drives, photos. He had kept it all, just in case. Not because he was careful. Because deep down, he knew that one day, he would have to betray.

He wasn’t afraid of Na Baek-jin.

Not like before.

What he feared was no longer being worthy of Y/N’s gaze. She had slapped him as if she wanted him to become real again. And she had succeeded.

So that night, he walked to the hill where Yeon Si-eun and his two war dogs, baku, gotak and jun-tae. sometimes hung out.

They were there.

He handed the bag to Si-eun, without speaking.

Yeon Si-eun didn’t ask questions. He opened it. Scanned it. Understood. And looked up.

“Why?”

Seong-je ran a hand through his hair, his gaze elsewhere.

“You want to demolish their fucking syndicate? Here’s your bomb. Me, I have something else to protect.”

Si-eun nodded. He didn’t add anything. No need.

The next day, Seong-je returned to his hole. He didn’t plan on being a hero. He let others destroy. He just wanted to survive.

But in his head, Y/N.

Always Y/N.

Her voice, her slaps, her silences, her scent.

He thought of her as he went to bed. As he breathed. As he walked. As he washed his hands like a maniac so as not to contaminate what he might one day offer her.

He wanted her. Physically. Yes.

But it wasn’t just that.

He wanted her to see him and think: he’s changed.

He wanted her to offer him a hand one day. Not to save him. Just to touch him.

And every step he took in this fucking rotten world, he took for her.

Not for love. Not for forgiveness.

For the possibility.

The tiny, painful, terribly uncertain possibility… that one day, she would look at him without rage.

Without fear.

Just… with something a little soft.

And for that, he was ready to betray everything he had been.

Even himself.

---

CHAPTER 10 – STORIES ARE WRITTEN TOGETHER

Two months. That’s all it had taken for the dust to settle over the city. Two months of voluntary isolation. Of self-imposed exile.

Geum Seongje hadn’t returned right away. No. He had been a shadow, a figure hidden in the underbelly, where people like him hid, where wounds half-healed, and where time seemed to have forgotten to pass.

The war was over, but he still bore its scars. His name was no longer whispered in the dark alleys with disgust or fear. The syndicate had fallen. The accusations against him had crumbled with the collapse of that underworld. He was cleared, or almost.

But not yet rehabilitated. Not yet returned to who he had been.

The two months had passed. And here he stood before the school, in the middle of the school holidays, in the shade of a tree. He had grown, changed. He was now a man. Of age. And, more importantly, he was there for her.

A cold gaze settled on the entrance of the building. It wasn’t the first time he had returned here. But this time, he had a reason beyond mere rage to reappear in the life of the one who had marked him with fire.

Y/N.

She was there. In the shadow of the gate, talking to a group of students, like a guardian figure. When she turned her head, her eyes met his. A shiver pierced the warm summer air. She recognized him immediately, even after those two months.

She hadn’t changed. But he… He was something else entirely. Harder, more mature, more enigmatic. Far from the teenager she had had to watch, control, sometimes insult. He was no longer the one she had slapped. He was no longer the one she had tried to help, with her icy and closed heart. No, he was a man. A man she knew by heart… and who, yet, was no longer the same at all.

Seongje approached her, his gaze scrutinizing every movement. It wasn't just the desire to possess her. It was deeper. It was a visceral need. A need to connect, to give meaning back to his existence. An obsession, of course, but tinged with that nuance he had never thought possible.

“You know, I can’t call you ‘ma’am’ anymore. I’m no longer under your supervision,” he said with a wry smile, a smile that was both teasing and unhealthy. But his voice was softer, more confident. It was more than a provocation. It was… almost an attempt to get closer.

She stared at him. She was no longer as implacable, but her expression remained distant.

“You’ve changed,” she finally said. Not a question, just a statement.

He didn’t answer immediately, preferring to look her in the eyes. And in that gaze, she could almost feel what he was feeling. The buried pain, the shame, the rage, but also an insatiable need to be seen. To be accepted. To be chosen.

“I’m an adult now, aren’t I?” His voice was tinged with that childish arrogance he had always had, but this time, it wasn’t empty. There was something more in the way he addressed her. A plea for recognition.

She didn’t answer right away, her gaze lost in a mixture of confusion and curiosity. The situation was too unclear for her to embrace with a simple look.

He moved closer slowly, each step heavy with unspoken meanings. Everything he had lived through, everything he had endured… He had gone through it all to be there, in front of her. He was ready for anything. Even that dull ache that resonated in his gut with every movement he made.

“If I follow you… it’s not for school, you know.”

His words were simple, but they struck her heart like a hammer blow.

“You want to follow me away from all this?” she asked, surprised, but also slightly amused. She had remained calm, but he could feel the tension in her gestures.

“Maybe,” he said, a mischievous smile in his eyes. Then he added, lower, almost to himself, “I’ve always had this kind of connection with you. I want more than silences. More than furtive glances.”

She looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, her gaze softened. Perhaps because she understood now. Perhaps because she knew.

“I’m going to another school… I’m getting transferred,” she murmured. “You know, the distance…”

He leaned a little closer to her, and this time, it wasn’t an enraged look, or the look of a badly behaved child. No, it was a conscious look, the look of someone who knew what he wanted.

“Then I’ll call you ‘noona’ now,” he said in a warm, sensual breath. The word slipped from his lips, and he pronounced it in an almost intimate way, a way that made all the difference. Because he had never pronounced that word that way before, not to her, not ever.

She froze for a moment before relaxing slightly. An almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. But he could see it. She saw it too, that small crack in the wall she had built around herself. She felt an electric tension, a dull pulse, as palpable as the air between them.

Their gazes locked.

It wasn’t a kiss yet, no. But there was something even stronger. It was a silent promise, a profound change. He, the child who had tormented her, now ready to be the one who would follow her. She, the woman ready to accept him, but not without her own fears.

Seongje’s fingers slid onto Y/N’s skin, brushing her wrist. The touch was soft, almost fragile, as if he were afraid of breaking what had just been created. And Y/N, this time, didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she leaned in slightly, like an invitation.

“Noona…” he repeated, in a heavier tone, almost a whisper. And this time, it was the beginning of something real, something vulnerable. It was no longer an obsession.

It was hope.

And then, he did it. He crossed that boundary that, until then, had seemed like an insurmountable chasm. He kissed her. Not brutally, not violently. But gently, gently, as if each movement was a revelation, as if he were discovering himself through her. He had no expectations. Just this desire to feel her close, even closer, more real than ever.

She recoiled slightly, her eyes wide open, shocked by the gesture, but he didn’t move away. Not this time. He waited for a reaction. He didn’t want her words. He just wanted… her to see him. To really see him.

And for the first time since he had met her, Seongje felt at peace. Not because the battle was over, not because he had won anything. But because this time, he had taken his future into his own hands. And that future, he wanted to share with her. No matter how twisted, difficult, or uncertain it might be.

She placed her hand on his cheek, caressing it gently. He had never thought that simple gesture could have such an impact. That tenderness… he received it like a precious, fragile gift. And perhaps, deep down, he was beginning to believe that he could build something real with her. Perhaps, finally, he could exist beyond his mistakes.

She leaned slightly towards him.

“Seongje…”

She said nothing more. Words were unnecessary. But in her eyes, there was what he had always sought: a promise. A promise he had waited for. That he would now build with her.

He smiled, without a word.

Things weren’t perfect. They never would be.

But for the first time, there was an “us.” And that was all he had ever wanted.

Their hands trembled. The air between them was saturated with desire and tension, but also with that fragility that now bound them. No further words were needed. No grander gestures. They understood each other. And for the first time, Seongje felt that he wasn’t alone in being obsessed with the other.

Y/N was there, ready to accept who he had become. But the question remained: would they be able to repair what had been broken before? Or would it all consume them even more?

..................................................................................

New Geum Seongje fanfictions

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zarnzarn · 9 months ago

Text

Athena shoots upright as soon as her eyes fly open, gasping. She calls on her spear and slashes in a brutal curve, provoking shouts from the enemies who'd been holding her down as they back off. Bares her teeth in a snarl as she grabs the sheets off the bed to whip at the eyes of the assailants and-

Light floods into her eyes as they step away from her attack and she freezes as she remembers a flash of brightness too fast to escape, heat and burning like never before, electricity that seeped into her very bones, thunder that deafened, lightning that hurt-

"Get back!" She hears and turns unsteadily back to- back to where Apollo is pulling Ares back by the cape against the far wall. Apollo. Ares. Aphrodite, Aephestus, Artemis.

"Wh-" She manages, before she's bowled over, coughing. She has never done it before, and she can't stop it from happening- chest rattling as her knees give out, barely holding herself up with her spear in time to reach the bed. It doesn't stop, doesn't stop, plumes of smoke escaping her mouth as she can't stop, can't breathe-

"Athena," Hera whispers, and a rough hand gently touches her on the shoulder, handing her a glass of nectar. She accepts it gratefully, tilting her head back to down it. It's soothing like it's never been before, stoping the coughing at last and it clears her headache long enough to realize that she isn't in her armour- she's in a chiton.

"Where is my armour?" She rasps as soon as she can, wiping her mouth. Looks around- Apollo's chambers.

She'd always known being the favourite wouldn't protect her forever. But repeating the words didn't seem to reduce the hurt.

Nor the shaking fear.

"-not!" Apollo is saying, indignantly setting his hands on his hips. "Do you have any idea how hard you got hit? You're lucky I could even stabilize your aspect enough to reduce some of the damage, otherwise you'd still be having a seizure back at Mount Olympus!"

"Mount Olympus," Athena mutters oddly, without much intent to it. She tries to stand again and her vision suddenly cuts out, provoking a round of screams as she loses her balance.

When the world blurrily comes back into focus- and she doesn't like this, hates this sudden weakness; she's always been able to get back up from any blow, has never visited a medical chamber in her existence, even when they had to fight the Titans- she's in Ares' arms, oddly horizontal.

"Cease this stupidity, sister," Artemis hisses at her as she grabs onto Athena's arms to bring her back to the bed. "Calm yourself. You are alive. You are safe."

"My armour," Athena says, voice cracking, head rolling oddly on her neck, unable to look upright. She catches a glimpse of Aephastus holding onto a sobbing Aphrodite, staring at her with a strange sort of sorrow.

Something twinges in Athena's chest in reply, but she stumbles before she can address it, feeling a fission of panic at the instability before Ares' grip on her tightens enough to keep her upright. They're all staring at her like that, she realizes, with that same horrified heartbreak.

"Didn't Artemis just tell you to cease stupidity?" Ares barks, though it's rather quietly said, for him. He adjusts her on the bed until she can lean back against the pillows. His hands are shaking, and Athena stares at them with curiosity. "Weren't you the one to lecture me half to death about when to remove the armour?"

"What," She says weakly, then moans as an aftershock trembles through her, residual sparks humming maliciously as they exit her skin, leaving her trembling. "I- hmmm, what? What were- what were-"

"Athena, calm down, please, you're scaring us," Hera says, bangles jangling as she sits down next to her, taking one of Athena's hands with desperation. Athena tilts her head to squint, noticing the tears for the first time, before she shudders as her skin registers the heat, the unbearable heat.

"Scaring?" She murmurs when it stops, voice coming out smaller than she intended it to.

"Her fever keeps rising and falling," Apollo reenters the room before anyone can answer, carrying a large tub of some odd liquid. "Here, help me rub this on her skin, it should extract any remaining- any remaining lightning."

They all move towards the tub at the same time, dipping the cloths provided and then taking positions in a circle surrounding her. Athena stiffens, fingers twitching for a weapon, but the first touch of Hera's drenched cloth on her forehead makes her moan in relief, the blessed coolness of it making her melt back into the sheets. She has no strength to complain or protest when her fellow gods each take a limb to rub at, a sensation both horrifically terrible and unbearably good. She has never taken her armour off in her life.

"Easy, that's it," Apollo says coaxingly, lips downturned like he's trying not to cry. She whimpers as the cloth on her left leg suddenly burns as a spark escapes, instinctively pulling it away, but Aphrodite grabs it before she can and resumes rubbing, whispering apologies. She turns her head and weakly opens her mouth for the herb Apollo lifts to her lips, desperate for relief from the splitting headache.

She can't think. She can't think.

Athena has no idea how long it goes on, how long the other gods ignore their realms to tend to her. Slowly, they strike up a conversation, something light-hearted that she can't follow- different from their never-ending arguments and insults, as they talk about the past year and humourous stories and varied anecdotes.

Athena can't help but relax into it, the soft bed at her back and gentle hands massaging her sore muscles and warmth all around her. Feels something trembling within her since she first became aware of herself settling down with a sigh.

Until she suddenly smells ozone.

Hera and Apollo both notice her tensing up immediately, and look to where she can hear slow footsteps approaching. Apollo growls and shoots out a hand, bringing up the shields of his realm.

The conversation dies down as they all look to the side, at the distinct shadow at the other side of the curtain.

Rage, Athena realises, thoughts slow and muddied. They're angry with him.

"I will handle this," Hera says coldly, with the steel undertone that Athena strives for. She moves her cloth aside and leans down to kiss Athena on the forehead, like a mother would. "You rest, my daughter."

Athena's breath hitches, eyes burning. Nobody has ever cared for her, apart from Zeu-

Nobody has ever cared for her.

... Nobody has-

Hera turns sharply at the noise that suddenly escapes Athena, half hysterical laugh and half distraught wail.

"Did I win?" Athena asks desperately, pushing herself upright, ignoring the protests of the others as she pulls her limbs from their grasp. Hera stares at her and Athena grabs the side of the bed as she tries to lever herself up like a wild animal, demanding in a broken voice, "Did I win?"

A silence that stretches for a painful moment before- "Yes," Aephastus says, putting his hand on her shoulder to guide her back from the edge. "Yes, Athena, you won."

A strangled gasp of relief leaves her, making her light-headed as she leans back against the pillows. She shivers, then sobs- humiliation running through her before she hears an answering noise of sorrow from Aphrodite next to her, pressure all around as her five younger siblings embrace her carefully, gently, like she would break at any moment.

She's not the one who's been raped by a Titan's daughter for seven years.

The thought has her breath hitching, wiping her tears away with a hand that refuses to co-operate the first few tries. "I need to-"

"No," Artemis snaps, glaring at her. "I know you think of nothing but your work, but Athena, you cannot do it this time." Outside, Hera's and Zeus' voices rise as they begin to shout and scream. "You must rest."

"N-no, that's not- aah," She groans as another aftershock rips through her, leaving her panting and soaked in sweat when it's done. "I need to- I need-"

"Hermes has gone to his grandson," Aephastus says soothingly. "Peace, Athena. Your hero is free."

For a moment, it doesn't comprehend and she stares at him blankly. "Free," She repeats, words still infuriatingly faint and lilting. "He's free? I- I need my helmet, where is-"

"No, Athena!"

"Sister, please, you cannot resume your duties, you are in no state!"

"I need my helmet, please, please- just give me my helmet!"

Her cry echoes off the walls and she hears herself when it bounces back to her, broken and pleading and so unlike her she feels nauseous. Her siblings have gone silent and still at her begging, staring at her with shock and horror and fear and sorrow alike. Even Zeus and Hera have stopped talking.

Athena shakes, wishing she could rip this awful vulnerability out of her veins, wishes she could find a stone footing to stand on once more, wishes she wasn't in this horrible chiton.

"Please," She whispers.

Quietly, Aephastus gets to his feet and walks in the direction of the nearby drawers, where she can now see her belongings stacked up haphazardly, blood-stained.

"Sister, you must calm down," Aphrodite pleads. She takes her hands and Athena dazedly looks down at her, with her wide, scared eyes. Seizure, her mind registers finally from Apollo's earlier talk. Ah. She seems to have frightened them all. "You cannot afford a relapse."

Athena squeezes her fingers in acknowledgement, but reaches for the helmet when it's held out, dented and worn.

She touches the metal and feels the full force of seven years of silenced prayers hit her at once.

She's crying before she knows she's doing it, clutching the helmet to her chest as the warmth of the worship wraps around her like a shawl, and holds it tight against her as Ares tries to pry it away.

"No, no!" Apollo intervenes, shifting forward. He touches a hand to the helmet and suddenly the hymn bursts forth around them, loud even though the prayer itself is quiet and broken. Athena inhales at the feeling of it, soothing over the cracks in her own mind with their never-ending continuity, desolate, unbroken faith even when she never came to help-

He's still singing.

She shifts her hands on the helmet to make sure but- yes. Odysseus is calling her, still, at this very moment.

Her head snaps up, but even the dizziness the motion causes doesn't take away from how much clearer the room looks. "Where is he?"

"Sister-"

"If you do not answer me, I will take to the skies myself," She says firmly. "Where is he?"

Her siblings exchange looks.

"Three days out from Ithaka," Artemis replies with a sigh. "On a raft. But listen, wait but an hour, at least absorb these prayers-"

Athena stumbles off the bed and pulls on the helmet, closing her eyes.

"Wait, the bandages-!"

"Athena, you'll hurt yourself, please!"

"Daughter, be careful!"

Athena opens her eyes and looks out at the waves, rough and choppy, but not enough to sink the raft. She looks down and looks at the way the faded clothes don't fit him, the way he has no water left to drink but he still continues to sing.

"Odysseus," She says, and he freezes.

A wave rises and falls. They stay silent, unmoving.

"Won't you look?" The words break out of her, cracked and desperate.

He inhales and exhales, tears in the sound of it. "I don't want to look if you're... if you're not really here."

She swallows against the lump in her throat, takes a step forward. "Well, I-" Her voice cracks, but the fragile grin on her face is real as it spreads, the frailest thread of laughter entering her voice. "I would hope. That if you were hallucinating of me, that the spectre would at least have wisdom enough to tell you that you were."

Odysseus sobs and her heart cracks, feels his heart cracking in turn; yet it is akin to a misaligned bone that never healed right and has to be reset- she can hear the laughter before it comes, with relief coming from the brink of madness, with joy they'd both forgotten and missed. "It is you."

"I could not reach you on Ogygia," She blurts out, desperate to make him understand. "Could not hear your call. I would have come the second time you prayed, if I had."

"It is you," He whispers, swaying. A wave rises suddenly and they both burst into movement, grabbing ropes and pulling the mast, balancing together to keep it steady.

The wave passes. They are almost touching now.

"Won't you look?" Athena asks again, raw and grieving. "Odysseus. My companion, my friend. Please."

He turns at that, a stunned expression on his face- before it turns into wide-eyed horror as he looks at her. She laughs breathlessly, slightly dizzy, but- her friend. How lovely it is to see him again.

"Athena!" He rushes forward with unexpected vitality, the parts of him that she knew suddenly rising to light in his eyes, in his movements, becoming unhidden from the defeated, beaten figure he'd been moments before. "What in Gaia's name-"

"I'm sorry," She interrupts as she slumps forward into the hands on her arms, off-balance. "I should have tried better to understand, all those years ago. I understand now and I- Odysseus, I am-"

"Athena, shut up," Odysseus snaps, clearly panicking. She laughs again, because isn't it such a novelty, to have a person who will have the audacity to tell her to? "Of course it's forgiven, I'm sorry too, I should have fucking listened back then- but listen, what in Hades happened to you? Why do you look like this- why do you have bandages- Hermes wouldn't answer when I asked if something happened to you, fuck-"

"Peace," Athena rasps, even as her vision blinks in and out, forcing her to kneel. They both grimace as another wave crashes into the raft, but they don't upturn. Odysseus kneels down with her, staring at her with such worry and concern she can feel nothing but fondness. "The disagreements of gods are often violent."

"Gods-" His eyes flicker to the side of her face, and he frowns, reaching out to push back the helmet. She bends her face down to let him, feeling an odd burning on the left side that she has a vague bad feeling about- proved right when Odysseus' expression falls into blank horror. "You got into a fight with-"

"Yes."

"But he's your-"

"I know. He did not take kindly to my petition to release you," She smiles dryly, without mirth.

"To release me?" Odysseus wheezes, face cracking into anguish and disbelief alike. "Athena, what- I- I'm not worth-"

"It was worth it," She snaps. "Consider it my penance for abandoning my own. I certainly don't regret it."

"I never felt abandoned," Odysseus whispers, taking her hands as she shifts, supporting her body with his own as they lean against the mast. She looks at him, and remembers why Penelope is still weaving, why he's still out on the waters, why Ithaka is waiting out the suitors till Telemachus takes the throne. "I always knew you would come back. I just figured it would take ten years more, perhaps."

Athena is silent for a bit, absorbing that. And then, because she can't hold it back any longer- "I am sorry about your men." His breath hitches under her and she turns to take him in her arms, knowing what's coming. "I am sorry about your friends."

He sobs, ugly and loud, and she holds him tighter. "I am sorry that Titan's whelp had you for so long, and what she did to you. I am sorry the Fates were so unkind."

"Athena," He keens, finally falling to pieces. The sobs are mere loud gasps for air at first, before it dissolves into wailing, screaming, grieving for all the men they'd kept alive through a war, only to lose them to this cruel tragedy instead. Even she hadn't known- hadn't anticipated how wrong things would go after she left. Hadn't even thought that he hadn't reached home.

"It's all my fucking fault," He shouts, shaking. "If only I had- if only-"

"It is not. No one could have known," She whispers. "The Fates are unknown to us all."

He sobs louder and she closes her eyes.

But finally, their tears dry up. She holds him still, as the night fades and the sun rises again, trying to take his hurt into herself so he can be happy again.

"I am sorry," She whispers, seaspray around them. "That my enemies became your own. That I pushed you so hard. That I chose you, and brought pain to your life so."

"Hey now," Odysseus says, pulling back to look at her, a broken smile on his face. "Hold your blasphemous tongue, before you insult the wisdom of Pallas Athena." She laughs, even as tears spill over. "Even if I had the chance to choose again right at this moment, my goddess, I would still choose you."

"That means more than you know," Athena murmurs, overcome. She gathers all her strength and reaches out to run a hand over his head, soothing his mind and driving away the last tendrils of madness that were still holding onto him. He sighs and relaxes under her, some visible weight lifting from his shoulders. "Still. I will learn from my mistakes. If you would give your old friend a chance-"

"Stop right there. Of course I-" Odysseus scoffs, reaching out to hold her left cheek for emphasis. "Athena, your left eye is half gone."

"Ah. Well, that explains the depth perception," She mutters, then bursts into giggles at the incredulous look on his face.

"Are you drugged?" Odysseus demands, but he's already trying not to laugh himself. They both move on fast. "What am I saying, of course you are- have you been drugged this whole time? Who on Earth drugged you?"

"That would be me," Apollo says, crossing his arms.

Odysseus snarls, grabbing his sword and swinging wildly in an arc, half-animal in his panic, pushing Athena behind him.

"FUCKING- whoa, hey, calm down, it's her brother, it's Apollo!" Apollo half-shrieks inelegantly, jumping back. "Honestly! Athena, call off your hero, please."

"Apollo?" Odysseus tilts his head, lowering his sword and narrowing his eyes.

Apollo stares at him. "Wow, you two- really do act the exact same, huh. Yes, Apollo, god of please let me change your fucking bandages, do you mind?"

Odysseus bows and murmurs apologies, clearly wary of getting into more trouble, but to her mild surprise walks behind Athena instead of to the other side of the raft.

"I don't need assistance," She mutters to him, even as she grimaces at the length of the chiton as she tries to pull herself upright.

"You're still dizzy," Odysseus points out, settling in behind her to hold her steady. He wipes at the tears still on his face and smiles at her. She manages a half-smile back. "Do you need to go back to Olympus?"

"Yes," Artemis crosses her hands and Odysseus' fingers tighten painfully on her shoulders.

"I'm not quite certain there's space for so many on this raft," Athena mutters.

"It's a magical raft, it'll survive- but never mind that, could you not have at least sent a message that you were okay?"

"Well, maybe you should have thought of that before running off without a word!"

"Really, daughter, you should know better!"

Odysseus grip is bruising now, and his sword is in front of Athena protectively; she can already tell what moves he's planning to use if they choose to attack. "Who..?" He asks lowly.

"Pantheon. At ease," She replies back shortly, before looking up at the others. "I thank you, my fellow go- my family, for your worry and concern. But we are only two days out from Ithaka and I would like to see this journey completed."

"You are not going to see yourself completed, if you don't rest," Apollo says, roughly at the exact same time that Athena undermines her own argument by throwing up on the raft.

"Athena, go," Odysseus says urgently when it's over, handing her helmet back to her and adjusting her cape as Hera kneels down beside her to hand her another glass of nectar, looking at him oddly. Odysseus grimaces and changes his tone. "I will be fine, patroness. I'll call for you when I reach the shores."

Movement catches her eye and she sees Ares remove his own helmet, giving her a reproving look. She remembers the speech he was talking about now- the one she'd loudly ranted at him when she was drunk a year ago, thinks about how much more at ease he is now.

"Alright," She acquiesces and everyone breathes a sigh of relief. "Two days."

Mania fills Odysseus' eyes as he smiles back, finally home from a war twenty years ago. "Two days."

Athena grins, even as she feels Hera wrap an arm around her to take her away. "Penelope is waiting."

Odysseus' eyes widen, then fill with tears, like he'd never quite truly let himself believe it; but his smile is wide and true. "Penelope is waiting. Thank you, Pallas Athena."

"You don't thank friends," She murmurs, exhaustion settling in. Odysseus laughs and the last thing she feels is a warm hand on her cheek and their foreheads pressed together, before the world goes black and she knows no more.

#athena #odysseus #god games #the aftermath at least #epic the musical #epic the wisdom saga #listen athena is the oldest sister. seeing that 'perfect' and unbroken goddess have a seizure because zeus lost his temper and attacked her #would Not have been easy on them #tw sex assault #< for Calypso #seizures are scary as all hell and no god has ever been injured enough to have one before #which is why theyre all terrified #also both of them have not processed much theyre just keeping their focus on the horizon #hera #aphrodite #ares #hephaestus #i just liked the a theme but it is him #artemis #found kt weird she wasnt there???#apollo #zeus but everyone is currently on the brink of murdering him #does it count as #odyath #if i mean for that to happen wayyy in the future #rn they r just friends that also happen to be intertwined in each other's mannerisms #odypen #my fic

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duvetchico · 2 months ago

Text

stupid in love

summary you’re down bad for yunjin. rumors say she’s crushing on someone, and you’re losing it hoping it’s you. turns out, she’s been in love with your dumb ass the whole time.

genre fluff / humor / mutual pining / best friends to lovers / gay panic™

pairing huh yunjin x fem!reader

masterlist.

you are so fucking tired of people saying “i think yunjin has a crush.”

like ok. good for her. congrats to her and her mysterious crush. may they live happily ever after. whatever. you’re not bitter. totally unbothered. you’re just gonna lie down in traffic real quick.

because the thing is… you’ve been in love with her for, like, ever. and not in a chill way. in a “i see her tie her hair up and forget how to breathe” way. in a “she hugs me for too long and i have to physically restrain myself from proposing” kind of way.

and now everyone keeps talking about her stupid crush and you’re spiraling. if it’s not you, you’re gonna eat drywall.

“i’m just saying,” chaewon whispers one night like she’s gossiping about a celebrity scandal, “yunjin’s totally into someone. she’s been singing love songs in the shower.”

“maybe she just likes music,” you say, deadpan, already preparing to scream into a pillow later.

“she’s been smiling at her phone like a loser,” kazuha adds, sipping her tea.

you… dying. combusting. already halfway into a breakdown.

“okay cool,” you say, casually, while gripping your chopsticks like you’re about to stab someone. “good for her.”

meanwhile, yunjin walks into the room, looks at you, and goes, “hey loser,” with a grin that’s all teeth and heart-eyes.

and you? you just sit there blinking like a broken npc because holy fuck she’s so pretty and she called you loser in that tone and you're this close to kissing her out of pure emotional instability.

you’re unwell. actually.

you almost confess like. five times. every time you chicken out. flop behavior. you should be banned from having feelings.

the closest you come is during a dumb late-night kitchen moment. it’s 2:43am. you’re both standing in front of the fridge like divorced parents debating what to eat.

she’s wearing your hoodie. your hoodie. sleeves covering her hands. hair messy. half-asleep. and she’s so close.

you look at her. you open your mouth.

“i like your face,” is what you almost say.

but what actually comes out is “do you want noodles or eggs?”

yunjin blinks. “…what?”

“i said noodles. or eggs. pick one. coward.”

you don’t speak for the next thirty minutes.

everything gets worse when you see her and kazuha laughing together. they’re holding hands for some reason??? why are they touching?? why is yunjin giggling like that. why is your soul leaving your body.

you go to the bathroom and stare at your reflection like “girl be so serious rn.” you look insane. you feel insane. you’ve entered the third act of a queer romcom and it’s giving cringe.

y/n u busy? yunjin for you? never. what’s up?? y/n having an aneurysm come to the roof. i need to tell u something yunjin if u push me off i swear to god

you’re already pacing when she gets there. full gay panic. knees weak, arms spaghetti.

“yo,” she says, casually. like you’re not about to emotionally vomit all over her.

“yo,” you say back, voice cracking. excellent start.

she squints at you. “you good?”

“define good.”

“…are you dying.”

“maybe.”

you inhale. then just. let it rip.

“do you have a crush on someone?”

she blinks. “wow okay. starting strong.”

“answer the question, yunjin. this is life or death.”

she tilts her head, arms crossed. “why?”

“because i—i just. i need to know,” you say, immediately regretting this entire thing.

she stares at you. her expression shifts. softens.

she squints at you. “why? you jealous or something?”

you snort way too aggressively. “pshh. no. haha. what the fuck. who. me. jealous. lol.”

a beat of silence.

“you are jealous,” she says, grinning. “holy shit.”

“shut up,” you groan, covering your face with your hands. “fuck. forget i said anything.”

“can’t. too late. it’s burned into my memory forever.”

you peek at her through your fingers. she’s just. smiling at you. all soft and amused like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. your heart does a backflip and crashes into a wall.

“…so?” you ask, muffled. “do you?”

“i do.”

you drop your hands. “oh.”

she snorts. snorts. she’s having fun. you’re dying.

“wanna know who it is?”

you freeze. “not if it’s gonna hurt my feelings.”

she leans in. leans the fuck in. you can feel her breath on your cheek. you go red instantly. like. tomato. full cherry blossom.

“it’s you,” she whispers.

you blink. once. twice.

“fuck off.”

“dead serious.”

“ME??” you screech. “ME?????????”

she laughs. “yes???”

“you’ve been singing in the shower about me???”

“you were eavesdropping???”

you grab her by the sleeves of your hoodie.

“you’ve been walking around here making me lose my entire mind for MONTHS—”

“same??? i literally thought you hated me.”

“i thought you were in love with kazuha.”

yunjin makes a face. “ew no. she’s hot but she’s like. my emotional support retriever.”

you wheeze. “i was gonna write a whole ass letter.”

“i was gonna write a song,” she retorts. “it was called ‘i think my best friend’s a hot idiot.’”

“oh my god,” you whisper. “kiss me before i jump off this roof.”

she does.

and it’s fucking perfect.

like. embarrassingly good. like years of tension melting into soft laughter and shaky hands and her lips tasting like mint and ramen and pure serotonin.

when you pull away, breathless, she grins.

“soooo,” she says, “can i call you my girlfriend now or are we still playing the 'emotionally repressed besties' game.”

“nah,” you say. “i want the title. gimme the label. say it.”

she leans in, all smug and sweet.

“mine?”

you nearly pass out.

later, you’re lying on her bed, tangled in limbs and way too many blankets. she’s scrolling through her phone while playing with your fingers like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“by the way,” she says, casually, “i still want noodles.”

“you’ll get noodles when i stop blushing.”

“so… never?”

“shut the fuck up.”

she kisses your cheek. “make me.”

you do. poorly. but she giggles anyway and pulls you closer like you’re the whole damn world.

and yeah. turns out she was crushing on you. the whole time.

turns out you were just a dumb bitch in love. but hey. so was she.

so it worked out.

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bobasbn · 3 months ago

Text

a flame that ignited fire (2)

1.6k words again | Sylus achieved his goal and is finally having a daughter but now he must deal with his wife's pregnancy cravings. Read part one <- here

“Are you alright, my love? Is the pillow fluffed up to your liking? Should I get you some snacks? Do you want anything else?” Sylus asks you profusely. He’s been nothing but attentive and worrisome ever since you were confirmed to actually be pregnant.

Sylus was driven to tears when you showed him a positive pregnancy test after all his effort to convince you that a baby is just what you two need. It’s been six months since then, you haven’t gotten the chance to even feel any discomfort without Sylus swooping in and pampering you with every available resource he has.

“Everything’s fine, thank you,” you say with a smile. You hold onto Sylus’s hand, your thumb gently turning the wedding band on his finger. All you wanted to do was lounge on the couch and watch a movie but your husband refused to let you move without him preparing the couch for your maximum comfort.

Sylus lowers himself to his knees in front of the couch, resting his elbows up right beside you. His eyes have been carrying a certain sparkle to them lately, an undeniable softness has been gracing his features, reminiscent of the way he looked at Riley when he realised that the baby wasn’t afraid of him.

“I’ve been having the tendency to be… overbearing,” Sylus admits sheepishly. His hand raises to smooth your hair back in a soothing manner. “Just tell me if you need me to just shut up and leave you alone.” He reminds you. He’s more than aware of his new habit of pampering you to an almost overwhelming degree sometimes. It’s endearing for the most part except for the select few times where your mood was naturally sour due to the pregnancy and you had chided Sylus for not giving you space.

“You know I will,” you joke, admiring the way Sylus has been stealing your pregnancy glow. You definitely envy it, the way his skin has been glowing and eyes glistening. You always thought it was the pregnant lady who was supposed to have that shine laid upon her skin, not her husband who is far too elated to be a father.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against your knuckles. He never fails to remind you of that either. “My precious girls.” Sylus gently rubs his hand over your pregnancy bump. Along with being driven to tears once he found out you were pregnant, his waterworks started up again when you found out you were going to have a daughter. You swear he’s been bearing the larger half of the emotional instability and moodiness between you two.

A girl is exactly what you were wishing for. The idea of giving Sylus a daughter that will melt down his tough exterior and bring out this vulnerable side like this is heartwarming.

Sylus stayed home because he was feeling worried after you had expressed your discomfort in your lower back. He prepared hot water bottles, fluffed up all your pillows and catered to your every request.

“Aren’t you tired? You’ve been awake all day,” you ask Sylus as you climb back into bed. After an adventurous day of laying on the couch on this bright weekend, you’re back in bed.

“Truthfully, I’m a little fatigued. But it’s nothing that I can’t handle,” Sylus says, but he’s already sitting up in bed with his hands folded in his lap. His eyes look like they’ll fall shut at any moment now.

You fix the blanket over your body. You’re just about to say something back to Sylus but when you look back at him, he’s already snoozing away. You can’t help but chuckle. Of course he pretended as if staying up all day didn’t bother him at all.

You relish in the moment of silence that lulls you to sleep in the peaceful atmosphere of the room.

In the early hours of the morning, about 4am, you’re jolted awake by your own senses.

You were feeling warmer even though the temperature of the room hasn’t changed. A sudden itch prickles around your abdomen and you feel some discomfort from the position you ended up in while sleeping. You lean over to turn the lamp on your bedside table on, feeling yourself involuntarily becoming more awake. To top it all off, you have a hunger for something cold. Cold, sweet and fruity, slightly floral. You smack your lips, noticing that your husband isn’t up and around like he usually would be at this time.

Despite not abiding by his usual sleep schedule, he’s still an incredibly light sleeper and his scarlet eyes are soon open and adjusting to the dim lighting.

“Sweetheart? Are you alright?” He husks, his deep voice almost inaudible from just waking up. He stretches his arms out, his muscles flexing as he props himself up.

“I’m not feeling good,” you admit. Sylus immediately becomes alert.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m hot, I’m itchy, uncomfortable and I want blueberry lavender ice cream,” you list out your issues. Your husband’s fingers touch your cheeks, noting the slight warmth to them.

“Blueberry lavender ice cream? Where would I find that at… 4 in the morning?” He inquires out loud, already planning on how he’ll fulfill your craving at this ungodly hour.

You shrug your shoulders, your mind running a bit too rampant about all the negative things you’re experiencing and not caring at all for the new quandary you’ve imposed on your husband. He gently rubs your back as you stiffly sit up, your joints feeling as if there’s something jammed between the sockets.

“I’ll be right back,” Sylus assures. His tiredness from just a moment ago disappears in a blink as he walks out of the room. Soon enough he comes back and props a hot water bottle behind your back and adjusts your pillow to make you more comfortable.

“Ice cream…” You mutter, clutching to the fabric of his shirt. The more you were awake, the more you craved the cold, sugary treat. You felt as if you would die without the ice cream you desire, like your stomach will simply twist up and kill you.

“Of course,” he responds and immediately nods his head. He presses a chaste kiss to your temple before heading out on his exploration for ice cream, specifically blueberry lavender ice cream which isn’t just found anywhere. Sylus has never run so fast in his life for something so trivial as ice cream. He knows he’s on limited time but the task isn’t an easy one, and every convenience store he stops by doesn’t have this specific flavour.

You rest your head against the pillow supporting your neck, shifting a bit as you absentmindedly rub your hand over your pregnancy bump. This daughter of yours is already giving you such a hard time before she’s even been born. She already has her father running mindlessly through the streets to fulfill her every whim.

Half an hour goes by and your cravings do not settle at all. If anything, they’re growing stronger. You try to distract yourself with your phone but everything is swirling into blue and purples hues, breaking into mosaics and forming the image of blueberry and lavender in your mind. It’s driving you insane.

The door almost breaks down when Sylus makes his return and he immediately starts making a big clatter downstairs which catches your attention. You tried to ignore it for the first few minutes but your curiosity grew to know if he ended up getting the ice cream or not. You muster up all the strength you can to push yourself off the bed and you pad downstairs curiously to see what your husband is up to.

To your surprise, when you enter the kitchen you’re met with the sight of Sylus handling an ice cream machine. A violet mixture churns in the machine, looking like the product of all your wishes right now.

“You’re making ice cream?” You lean your head against his arm, earning a kiss on the head from him.

“I couldn’t find it anywhere. But, fresh ingredients will taste much better,” Sylus says calmly. He had gone ahead and bought the raw ingredients just to make the ice cream you want at home. Despite being married to him for a significant amount of time, he still finds ways to make your heart melt.

You watch the ice cream being mixed for a few more minutes before he opens the lid to get a peek of the creation inside. You couldn’t resist swiping a finger through the smooth cream, taking a taste and your body instantly rests as you do. All the senses in your mind that were screaming for blueberry lavender ice cream were silenced the moment you finally got access to the fruitful, floral treat.

“Yes, this is it,” you nod. Even though the ice cream wasn’t set, it was calling your name. You served yourself a large bowl with every drop of the ice cream that Sylus made for you. You brought the bowl back to bed with you, your husband following behind closely like a puppy making sure that this was enough to satiate your craving.

“Is it good, sweetheart?” He asks. You hold up a spoonful of the ice cream to his mouth, it’s more cream than ice. He takes a bite, eyebrows raising with delight.

“I’ve been waiting my entire life for this,” you murmur. You hog the rest of the bowl, shoveling spoonful after spoonful into your mouth as your husband watches with a sense of admiration for you. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, a small smile on his face.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” he gently taps his finger against your nose. His eyes flit down to your belly.

“I can’t wait to meet her,” he whispers, his eyes full of wonder. He wouldn’t get annoyed even if he had to fly to the ends of the Earth to satisfy your cravings. It all didn’t matter as long as he was helping you feel better, and that he was getting closer everyday to meeting his daughter.

He was already ready to give up everything to take care of you two, his girls, his entire world. You two were definitely going to be spoiled rotten by Sylus.

#love and deepspace #lnds sylus #lnds #qin che #sylus qin #more sylus girl dad #more domestic fluff sylus

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honeyncherry · 5 months ago

Text

secret of us IV - joe burrow

summary tick tock joe, your time is running out. you'd better make your move before she slips away for good

content angst, swearing, slow burn

part three ; next

For as long as he can recall, Joe has always been a victim of Impostor Syndrome. No matter how many accolades he earned or how many times he proved himself, it was never enough. The feeling stayed, an insistent voice that whispered he didn’t belong. That he wasn’t enough. It crept into the moments that should have felt triumphant, dulling their shine, leaving him wondering when the world would realize he was just faking it more than not.

Love, he’d always thought, was the same. Not him, not something he deserved. How could it be when he was constantly battling the belief that he wasn’t enough. Not good enough, not selfless enough, not strong enough to hold on to something as rare as love? He’d convinced himself he was too flawed, too guarded, and too consumed by the weight of his own insecurities to ever be someone’s safe haven.

He believed love deserved someone who wasn’t afraid of it, someone who wouldn’t ruin it just by trying to hold on too tightly.

With a life that’s always been marked by transience — teammates who came and went, fans whose loyalty burned bright but faded just as quickly, and moments of glory that felt fleeting the second the final whistle blew, Joe had learned to live with uncertainty. The instability of it all only reinforced his doubts, leaving him convinced that nothing good ever stayed. Not for long. Not for him.

It was a quiet ache, the kind that didn’t scream or demand attention but lingered in the corners of his mind. He’d felt it since he was young, though he couldn’t name it then. It was the echo of his mom’s laughter when she thought he wasn’t listening, the way his dad’s hand would rest on his shoulder after a tough game. It was fleeting gestures, not foundations. And maybe that was the problem: he didn’t know how to believe in something that wouldn’t slip away.

But then you came around.

He couldn’t pinpoint the moment you became different, no single flashpoint where everything shifted. Maybe it was that first week at OSU, when you sat beside him on a ratty couch at a teammate’s house party.

He’d been perched on the edge of the couch, nursing a drink he didn’t want, his knee bouncing with restless energy. The party felt too loud, too crowded, like he was watching from behind a pane of glass instead of being part of it. Then you sat down beside him, close enough that your leg brushed his.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” you’d said, your voice loud enough to cut through the music but soft enough to feel like a secret.

Startled, he’d glanced at you, unsure how to respond. “Not really my scene,” he finally admitted, his voice low and uncertain.

You’d laughed, a bright, easy sound that made his shoulders drop a fraction. “Same. My friends dragged me here against my will.” You paused, your eyes scanning the room as if you were searching for a way out. Joe thought that might be the end of it, just another fleeting exchange.

But then you straightened up, turning toward him with a curious tilt of your head. “Want to get some air?”

He didn’t know why he said yes. Maybe it was the way you smiled at him, like you weren’t judging him for feeling out of place. Or maybe it was because, for the first time since arriving on campus, he felt like he’d found someone worth knowing. Not his roommate, who was overly eager about sharing a room with someone on the team. Not even his teammates, who barely acknowledged him off the field.

That night, sitting with you on the back steps of the house, talking about anything and everything, felt like the first time in ages he could just breathe.

That was the first thread.

Then there was the aftermath of the 2020 game against Clemson. The field was a frenzy. Players shouting, confetti raining down like a golden storm, and fans roaring from the stands. Reporters swarmed coaches and teammates, microphones jostling for space, cameras snapping endlessly. It was chaos, beautiful and overwhelming.

The National Championship. They’d done it. He’d done it.

Joe let out a shaky laugh, raking a hand through his sweat-soaked hair as a teammate clapped him hard on the back. His body felt like it had been through a war, bruised and battered, but he barely noticed. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, numbing the aches. This was it. The moment he’d dreamed of since he was a kid. Yet, standing in the middle of the confetti-strewn field, it still didn’t feel entirely real.

Reporters pushed toward him, but their questions blurred into static. He answered on autopilot, the words coming easily. Praise the team. Credit the coaches. Downplay his own role. He meant every word, but beneath it all was a flicker of something else. A nagging itch he hadn’t been able to shake all day.

You weren’t here.

You’d called a few days before, your voice every bit apologetic. “It’s a family wedding, Joe. I hate missing this, but I’ll be glued to ESPN, screaming at every play. You’re going to kill it.”

He’d smiled through the phone, forcing himself to sound unaffected. “It’s fine. You’ve got stuff to do.”

But it wasn’t fine to him. Not really. He knew it was selfish, knew he should’ve been grateful you even cared enough to tell him beforehand. But the thought still crept in uninvitedly. You’d been there for so many games, cheering him on with that unwavering support that he didn’t always know how to handle. And now, at the biggest moment of his career, you weren’t.

He swallowed the thought, trying to shake the disappointment. The crowd was still chanting, the cameras still flashing, and the night was far from over. He couldn’t let himself dwell on it.

But then, as he glanced toward the edge of the field, something caught his eye.

At first, it was just a glimpse — a flash of familiarity near the barricade. His eyes caught on the figure for a moment before darting away, his chest tightening instinctively. No, it couldn’t be. It was just the uproar messing with his head, the exhaustion playing tricks on him.

But it plagued him, begging for his attention.

Joe hesitated.

What if he was wrong? What if it wasn’t you? The thought made his stomach twist, disappointment threatening to creep in yet again before he could stop it. He told himself to let it go, to focus on the celebration. But he stood frozen in place.

Against his better judgment, he turned fully toward the sight, his heart thudding in his chest.

And there you were.

Standing near the barricade, mid-conversation with a friend, your profile unmistakable under the glow of the stadium lights. His breath caught, the air rushing out of his lungs like he’d been tackled. It was you.

For a moment, all he could do was stare, his mind scrambling to catch up.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You had obligations. You’d told him yourself.

And yet, here you were, real and undeniable as if the universe had decided to drop you into the middle of his mayhem just to remind him you were always there when it mattered most.

Your friend nudged you, pointing in his direction. You turned, eyes meeting his from across the distance.

The moment stretched, a fragile thread holding the two of you in place.

Then you smiled, a soft, warming smile that seemed to slow the madness around him. His chest tightened, the thrum of his pulse roaring in his ears as his breath caught. He watched as you lifted your hand, fingers curling into a small, hesitant wave. The gesture felt delicate, almost cautious, as if you were feeling your way through the moment, unsure of how he might react.

Joe felt frozen, his legs rooted in the turf, but everything inside him surged forward.

You were here.

Before he could stop himself, he was moving. The reporters were focused on the coaches, giving him a chance to slip away unnoticed. His legs felt heavy, his body sore, but none of that mattered. He jogged toward you, the noise of the stadium fading with every step.

When he reached the barricade, he didn’t think twice. He leaned over and pulled you into his arms, his face burying into the curve of your neck.

“You’re here,” he breathed, his voice crackled with emotion.

“Of course I am,” you said, words muffled as you held him just as tightly. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

He pulled back slightly, hands gripping your shoulders as his eyes searched your face. “You lied about the wedding?”

A mischievous grin spread across your face, one that made his heart skip a beat. “Maybe. I thought a surprise would be more fun.”

Joe laughed, a sound that was part disbelief and part relief, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, just for you.

Before he could say more, he felt a strong arm hook around his waist.

“Burrow! Come on, man!” Ja’Marr cheered, tugging him back toward the crowd. Joe reluctantly let go of you, his hands lingering on your arms for a moment longer than necessary.

“I’ll find you later,” he grinned quickly, eyes locking onto yours one last time.

As he was dragged back into the chaos, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder, searching for you in the crowd. You were still standing there, watching him with a smile that made everything else melt away.

The noise, the confetti, the cameras, it all felt secondary. Because in that moment, to Joe, the championship wasn’t just about the trophy or the victory.

It was about you. The way you were there for him. Every. Single. Time.

That thread was golden.

Or maybe it was later, on those long nights during his rookie year with the Bengals. When the weight of expectations pressed heavy on his chest and your voice on the other end of the line was the only thing that could keep him grounded.

He remembered one night in particular. The season had been brutal thus far, each game feeling like another test he wasn’t sure he could pass. He’d spent the day running drills, analyzing film, and listening to coaches dissect every decision he’d made on and off the field. By the time he got home, his house felt suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that left him alone with his doubts.

He’d called you without thinking, the phone pressed tightly to his ear as he finally took a second to sit down. “I feel like I’m drowning,” he admitted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His voice faltered in a way he hadn’t meant for you to hear, betraying just how close he was to breaking.

You didn’t miss a beat. “You’re not drowning, Joe,” you said, your voice steady and sure. “You’re just in deep water. You know how to swim.”

He let out a soft laugh, tinged with disbelief. “A swimming reference? Really? What am I, Phelps?” he asked, half-smirking, half-expecting you to laugh it off.

“Yeah, I am,” you shot back, unfazed. “Because it’s true. You’re a better swimmer than you give yourself credit for.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head as he sank deeper into the couch. “What if I forgot how?” he played along, the doubt still clinging to his words.

“Then I’ll jump in after you,” you replied, the words so calm and certain that they made him pause. At first, he thought you were joking, but the conviction in your tone made his head spin. He shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to process what you’d just said.

It wasn’t the first time someone had offered support. Though, oftentimes, it felt hollow coming from them. People would praise him then turn their backs and mock him when he wasn’t looking. But with you, it was different. Your belief in him didn’t feel fake or conditional. It felt real, unshakable and right in a way that scared him more than he wanted to admit.

“Why are you so sure I’ll figure it out?” he’d asked, his voice softer now, the pressure loosening just enough to let him breathe.

“Because you’re you,” you said simply. “And I’ve never known you to back down from anything. Even if you feel like you’re sinking now, you’ll get through it. You always do.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that. Instead, he closed his eyes and let your voice wash over him as you started talking about your day — little things like the mix-up at the printing machine that morning or the neighbor who’d just adopted a cat. It wasn’t anything earth-shattering, but it was exactly what he needed. Enough to pull him out of his head, enough to ease the tension in his body and mind until he could finally sit still.

This was the thread that held everything together.

Joe had, overall, always been good at keeping things in their place. It’s what made him excel under pressure, what allowed him to keep his head when everything around him spun out of control. But you? You blurred the lines. You seeped into the cracks he’d worked so hard to seal, and he hated you for it almost as much as he loved you for it.

It took him years to understand it. Years of standing too close yet not close enough, of watching you steal his hoodies and tease him about his game-day routines, of feeling your hand brush his arm in ways that left his skin tingling long after. Years of telling himself it was just friendship, because anything else felt too big, too dangerous.

And then it hit him.

It wasn’t a revelation that came in a rush or a sudden burst of clarity. It crept in slowly, like the tide pulling back just enough to reveal what had always been there. Joe loved you. He’d loved you for longer than he could admit to himself. And the weight of it? It was crushing.

He was always terrified of losing control, of letting his emotions dictate his decisions. Football demanded a sort of precision: discipline so ruthless it bordered on obsession, a singular focus that left no room for distractions or vulnerability. Every play, every moment on the field, required him to suppress the nagging sentiments inside, to bury the doubts and emotions that had built up over the years and threatened to surface.

Anything less than perfect control felt like weakness, and weakness wasn’t something he could afford. Not on the field. Not off it.

But you? You were the exception. The one thing he couldn’t control, no matter how hard he tried.

Joe thought about the night you’d shown up at his house, your voice trembling as you demanded answers he wasn’t ready to give. The way your eyes searched his, raw and pleading, left him feeling more exposed than he’d ever been on any field. He’d wanted to tell you then. He wanted to reach for you, pull you close, and let the words spill out in an unstoppable manner.

But he froze. The fear clawing at his chest was too strong to ignore. Fear of ruining what you had. Fear of being too much, or worse, not enough. Fear of you seeing the parts of him he’d worked so hard to bury. The parts that weren’t perfect or polished. The parts that felt fragile in a way he couldn’t admit, even to himself.

So now, sitting in his car outside the bar, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles ached, he realized he couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t keep running from this, from you. It wasn’t just about the guilt — though that was part of it. It was about the pain of your absence, the way it haunted him in ways he couldn’t ignore.

The sound of Drew’s voice echoed, dragging him back to earlier that day.

The call started off casual… until Drew’s tone shifted mid-sentence.

“Oh, yeah, we’re hitting that new bar tonight—” Drew began, only for Mia’s voice to cut in sharply from the background. “Drew!”

Joe frowned, catching the muffled sound of Mia hissing something he couldn’t make out. There was a pause, the sound of rustling, and then Drew’s voice returned, noticeably higher-pitched and nervous. “Uh, never mind. It’s not important.”

“What bar?” Joe asked, the question coming out sharper than he intended.

“It’s nothing, man,” Drew said quickly, his words tripping over themselves. “Just a thing Claire planned. Don’t worry about it.”

Joe’s brows furrowed, his grip on his phone tightening. “A thing? You’re being weird, Drew.”

“I’m not being weird!” Drew replied too fast. “Just… you know how the girls get when they’re planning stuff. Look, I've gotta go, man. I’ll talk to you later.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving Joe staring at the screen, unease prickling at him. Drew was hiding something. He was sure of it.

Later, after hours of the conversation looping endlessly in his mind, Joe finally bit the bullet and texted Drew.

Joe: What’s going on with this bar thing? Don’t lie to me.

The typing bubble appeared, then disappeared. Joe’s stomach churned as the seconds dragged on. Finally, a response came through.

Drew: It’s nothing serious. Just a casual thing.

Joe’s jaw clenched as he stared at the message. He tapped out a reply.

Joe: Who’s going?

Another long pause.

Drew: Me, Mia, Claire, Lily. A few others.

The answer was too vague, and Joe knew Drew well enough to recognize when he was dodging. His fingers flew over the keyboard.

Joe: Is she going?

The reply came faster this time.

Drew: Yeah. I think so.

He exhaled slowly, a knot forming in his stomach as the next question pressed forward, almost on instinct.

Joe: Why wouldn’t Mia want me to know?

Yet again, the typing bubble appeared, vanished, and then reappeared, as if mocking him with its cruel, drawn-out rhythm. Each second stretched unbearably until Drew’s response finally arrived.

Drew: Claire’s bringing some guy to meet her.

Joe stared at the screen. The words blurred as his mind raced, a thousand scenarios flashing through his head, none of them good.

Joe: What guy?

Drew: I don’t know. Just some friend of hers. She’s been hyping him up for a while.

Joe: You knew about this?

Drew: Not really. Mia didn’t tell me much. She didn’t want you to find out.

His thoughts spiraled, building into a picture he didn’t want to see but couldn’t ignore. He read it again, the weight of the implication sinking in.

That’s all it took.

Now, sitting in the quiet of his car, Joe leaned back against the headrest, his eyes slipping shut as memories crept in. Your laugh, bright and unrestrained, echoing like it belonged to the very fabric of the room. The nights you’d sat cross-legged on his couch, the furrow in your brow deepening as you stubbornly argued over which movie to watch — maddening, yet somehow the one of the most endearing things about you. And the way you’d looked at him, your gaze piercing, like you could see straight through every boundary he’d ever built.

It wasn’t new. None of it was. He’d always loved you. He could see that now, clear as day, and it had taken him far too long to accept it. Joe saw no point in fighting the pull of something that felt as natural as breathing.

The thought of walking into that bar, of seeing you standing there with someone else, made his head hurt in ways he didn’t want to explain. But it wasn’t just jealousy that drove him now. It wasn’t just the idea of someone else holding the space he wanted so desperately to claim. It was deeper than that.

It was the need to stop running. To tell you everything. Lay it all bare and let you decide what comes next, because the idea of losing you, not just as a possibility but as a certainty — was unbearable.

If he didn’t go in now, if he let this moment slip through his fingers, he knew he’d never forgive himself.

Joe opened his eyes, exhaling slowly as he reached for the door handle. The weight in his chest didn’t feel quite so suffocating anymore. It wasn’t gone, but it was manageable. For the first time in a long time, he felt grounded in who he was.

Because this time, he wasn’t running.

Joe entered the bar, weaving his way through as the crowd shifted and broke around him, creating a path he barely noticed. His mind raced with everything he wanted to say, but had no idea how to begin.

He found his friends easily, and when he reached the table, the tension was immediate, a heavy cloud settling over the group.

Mia noticed first. Her expression softened, a mix of pity and quiet concern etched into her features. Drew, on the other hand, couldn’t even meet Joe’s gaze for more than a second. His back straightened like he’d been caught sneaking out past curfew, staring intently at his drink like it might save him from the confrontation brewing. Claire didn’t bother hiding her displeasure, her glare vicious. Predictably, she was the first to speak.

“Well, this is unexpected,” she said, her tone dripping with disdain. “What are you doing here, Joe?”

Joe didn’t even look at her. His focus was locked on Drew, the words tumbling out. “Where is she?”

Drew hesitated, glancing nervously at Mia, who gave him a pointed look that said; You got yourself into this. “Uh…” Drew stammered. “She’s at the bar.”

Joe didn’t wait for more. He turned on his heel, his movements purposeful as he wove back through the crowd toward the bar. Behind him, he could hear Claire muttering something under her breath, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was you.

And when Joe spotted you, he stopped just short of the bar, his eyes narrowing. You stood with one hand resting lightly on the counter, nodding at something the guy next to you was saying. Your lips curved into a faint smile, head tilted slightly, but something was off.

From a distance it might’ve looked like you were interested, though, Joe noticed the way your gaze drifted. Your tight-lipped smile didn’t reach your eyes and your attention flickered away, glancing toward the bottles behind the counter as if they were more interesting than the guy next to you. You were looking for a way out.

Joe shifted his weight, his attention snapping to the guy. He was… average. Polished in a way that felt like he was trying too hard. Neatly pressed shirt, carefully styled hair, and a smile that bordered on overconfident. Joe felt his jaw tighten. This is the guy Claire thinks you should be with? This is who she thinks is worth your time?

As he stopped just behind you, the guy’s voice drifted over. Something about the lighting in the bar, or maybe the music. It was mundane, predictable, and Joe smirked. He wasn’t surprised you weren’t invested. Of course you’re bored, he thought. This guy’s got the personality of a waiting room.

Joe tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening as he caught the guy’s words falter mid-sentence. He hadn’t even spoken yet, but his presence alone was already throwing the guy. Before Joe could step closer, you turned, your gaze following the guy’s faltering focus.

And then you saw him.

Your eyes locked with his, and for a fleeting second, everything else seemed to fall silent. Joe paused as he took in the way your expression shifted. Surprise, confusion, something else he couldn’t quite place. He held your gaze, unflinching, his jaw tight as he tried to dissect the emotions screening across your face.

The soft glow of the bar lights cast a warm halo around you, catching in your hair and highlighting the faint furrow in your brow. Your lips parted slightly, like you were about to say something, but no words came.

Joe didn’t speak either, couldn’t speak. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from yours, the unspoken tension crackling between you like a live wire.

He let the moment stretch, another faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He finally stepped to your side, his voice cutting cleanly through the ambient noise that ebbed back in. “Don’t stop on my account,” he said, his tone smooth and laced with just enough edge to make his authority known.

His gaze flicked briefly to the guy before landing back on you. “Sounded like a real captivating conversation.”

The guy shifted uneasily, clearing his throat but offering no reply.

You? You just stared up at Joe, wide-eyed and silence.

For a moment, the world held its breath, leaving only the three of you in this precarious, unbalanced triangle.

Joe? Joe wasn’t about to let the balance tip away from him.

The turned toward Joe, the strain in his polite smile visible. “Uh… can I help you with something?”

Joe barely looked at him. “Not unless you plan on leaving,” he said, his attention fixing entirely on you once more. He didn’t miss the glint of something different in your eyes — annoyance, perhaps, or was it relief? His voice dropped, leaning just close enough for you to hear over the noise.

“We need to talk.”

You hesitated, your hand tightening slightly on the edge of the bartop. “Now?”

Joe nodded, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Yeah. Now.”

You glanced briefly at the guy, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something, maybe intervene. But Joe’s glare sliced through whatever courage he might have been mustering. He thought twice, shoulders stiffening as his hands lifted in a silent gesture of surrender.

With a small nod — whether it was understanding or reluctant resignation, Joe couldn’t be sure — the guy stepped back and turned, making his way through the crowd toward the table where the others sat. Joe caught a brief glimpse of Mia’s unsure frown and Drew’s poorly concealed grimace, but he didn’t pay mind to them.

He didn’t care.

His focus was locked entirely on you.

“Let’s go,” he said.

You hesitated, glancing between him and the group at the table. “But, Joe—”

“Now,” he repeated, cutting you off. There was no bite in his tone, but the urgency was impossible to ignore.

Without another word, Joe reached for your wrist. His touch was firm but not rough as he turned toward the exit, his grip guiding you to the exit. You followed without protest, your steps quickening to keep pace with his long strides.

Joe caught the faint shiver that passed through you the moment the cool night air hit your faces. He didn’t stop, didn’t loosen his grip on your wrist, but his stride slowed just enough for you to keep up.

The rowdiness of the bar gradually faded behind you, replaced by the whir of traffic and the occasional burst of muffled laughter from people on the streets. Joe kept moving, leading you past the glowing streetlamps and the lingering smokers, until he turned sharply into a narrow alleyway.

As soon as he stopped, he let go of your wrist, stepping back as if to put space between his own chaotic emotions and you. The alley was dim, the faint light from a singular light nearby casting jagged shadows against the brick walls. Joe faced you, his shoulders rigid, jaw set. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come immediately.

“Well?” you demanded, your voice clipped. “You dragged me out here. Are you going to say something, or should I just head back?”

Joe’s brow furrowed, the bite in your tone stinging more than it should have. He exhaled hard through his nose, the frustration bubbling beneath the surface of his otherwise steady demeanor. “Why were you with him?”

“Why do you care?” you fired back, chin lifting.

“I asked first.” His voice was short now, mirroring yours.

“And I’m asking why it matters,” you countered, your head tilting slightly as you took a step closer.

“Because it does!” The words came out harsher than he intended, bouncing off the narrow walls of the alley. His hand dragged through his hair, tugging at the roots in a futile attempt to soothe the building headache. “It matters because I couldn’t stand seeing you with him. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Your eyes widened, your weight shifting as if the force of his words had pushed you back. “What do you mean, ‘couldn’t stand it’? Since when do you care who I’m with?”

Joe glanced away, his jaw clenching tightly as he fought the impulse to retreat. His hands flexed at his sides, the memory of the guy’s too-eager grin still gnawing at the edges of his self-control. “Since always,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the ground.

You scoffed, the sound disbelieving as you shook your head. “That’s a convenient thing to say now.”

The bitterness in your voice hit like a low blow. Joe flinched, his fingers curling into fists at his sides as the frustration boiled over.

He paused. “Just… seeing you with him tonight—” His voice wavered, the words stalling as if they physically pained him to say. His breath hitched, each syllable dragging itself out, “I couldn’t ignore it anymore.”

Your arms loosened slightly, the edge in your expression and voice easing enough to make him pause. “Ignore what, Joe?”

The words hung unavoidably in the silence between you. Joe’s eyes lifted to meet yours, searching for something he wasn’t sure he wanted to give. Vulnerability clawed at him, splintering the guarded facade he’d clung to so desperately — but there was no point in hiding anymore.

“Joe,” you prompted again, this time so softly it was almost a whisper.

He stepped closer, his chest brushing against the faint edge of your crossed arms. “Just tell me,” he said, his voice lower now, tainted with desperation. His arms twitched, like they wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare. “Tell me it doesn’t matter to you. Tell me you want to go back to him, to anyone, and I’ll walk away. But if it’s not him, if there’s even the smallest part of you that feels—” His voice broke slightly, and he swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. “Just say it. Please.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Joe’s gaze stayed fixed on you, his lungs feeling tight as if he’d forgotten how to breathe, the seconds stretching unbearably. Then, slowly, you shook your head, the motion subtle but certain.

“It’s not him,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joe exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of relief so intense it felt like it might crush him. His pulse still hounded in his ears, but it wasn’t chaos, it was clarity.

Of course it’s not him. He’d known it before he asked, before you even shook your head. Joe knew you, and he knew that guy wasn’t you. Could never be. The realization settled inside him, carrying a flicker of hope so bright it nearly hurt to hold.

He didn’t realize he’d stumbled closer until he caught a faint whiff of your perfume, the scent pulling him in like it always did. You were so close now, he could feel the faint warmth of your breath brushing his skin.

“Okay,” Joe rasped, his voice uneven. He cleared his throat, using his hands to shake the nerves before bringing them together in front of him. His knuckles cracked softly as he flexed them, his fingers fidgeting in an unconscious rhythm. He took a deep breath to compose himself.

“Okay, wait. I— there’s something I need to say. And I’m probably going to screw it up, because that’s just what I do, but I need to say it anyway.”

You didn’t respond, just looked at him, waiting. Joe placed his hands on his hips, “I didn’t plan this. Hell, I didn’t even plan on being here tonight. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t stay away. Not after Drew told me what Claire was doing. Especially not after seeing you sitting with him, talking to him.”

A bitter laugh slipped out, self-directed and harsh. “And I know, I know I don’t have any right to feel like that. I’ve been distant. A dick. Call it whatever you want. But the truth is… I couldn’t handle it. You. Us. All of it. Because every time I was near you, I felt like I was standing too close to something I didn’t know how to handle.”

Joe hesitated, his throat constricting, his next words quieter, spoken with effort. “But it wasn’t the kind of edge you run from. It was the kind you jump off. Because being around you — being near you, it’s like nothing else fits. Nothing else makes sense. And I’m so goddamn tired of pretending it’s anything else.”

He let the words settle between you, the meaning of them filling the air. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths.

“I love you,” he said finally, the words falling between you like they’d been waiting there all along. “I’ve loved you for a long time. Maybe longer than I’ve even let myself admit. But I was too scared to say it. I was too scared of screwing it all up and losing the best thing I’ve ever had.”

Joe’s gaze stayed locked on yours, unflinching, his body tensing like he wanted to close the space between you. “But tonight, thinking of you with someone else… it hit me. I’m not scared of losing you anymore. I’m scared of not trying. Of letting you walk away without knowing how much you mean to me.”

His breath hitched, the final words trembling on his lips. “So, yeah. That’s it. That’s what I needed to say.”

The air felt heavy, thick with everything he’d just admitted. For a moment, you simply stared at him, your lips parting as if to say something, but no sound came.

The confession curled in the air between you. He didn’t move, didn’t say anything more, as if he’d laid everything he had at your feet and was now waiting, bracing, for what you would do with it.

His eyes locked onto yours, and for the briefest moment, he thought he caught it: a flicker of a smile, faint but unmistakable. Like maybe, just maybe, you were about to let him in. Joe’s heart jumped in anticipation.

You opened your mouth—

Flash!

The blinding light sliced through the moment, echoing through the stillness of the alleyway, leaving quiet in tatters.

Flash.

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